People who are Important to Me: Lizzy Jones aka Penny Stealer

People who know me well might consider me conniving. My mother has noted on more than one occasion, typically occasions when I need a hearty slice of Humble Pie, that despite being more honest than the average kid my age, I am also incredibly manipulative. Which I totally attribute to Lizzy, my childhood best friend who also read my blog and told me to turn down the bitch. But since she was wearing a beanie that looks like a panda and the paws are little ear flaps, it was kind of hard to take her criticism seriously. But anyway, the narrative of how we met is probably the best way to showcase this particular nutcase.

Picture an Albertsons, circa 1996ish. I don't know, it's before my brother was in preschool but after he was old enough to have play dates. Don't ask me why my childhood time line is in terms of significant events for my brother. Anyway, the aisles and aisles of decaying linoleum flooring and bug stained phosphorescent lights are creating a yellow backdrop against checkout lines, where I am impatiently waiting for my mother to finish paying for the groceries that are disproportionately high in vegetables and low in fruit snacks. Maybe the trip didn't take as long as she expected, or maybe I am well behaved that day, not slipping unwanted Jello boxes into the cart (an offense punishable by time-out aka death), but my mom decides that I can indeed have the ever coveted penny to take a ride in truck at the front of the store.

Now, there are a couple unique things about this grocery store, this truck ride, and this penny. This Albertsons is not where we typically shop. There is a higher quality King Soopers closer to our house, right around the corner, in fact. I don't know why we were in that particular Albertsons. And as a little girl I abhorred the color pink and loved all things metallic and useful, specifically if that use was transportation. My mom thinks I'm her train engineer grandfather reincarnated, I think it's just because I determined from an early age to differentiate myself from my super girly cousin of the same age. But this grocery store, not the one we typically shop at, has a truck. A truck! Not a stupid pony like the King Soopers we always went to, a truck with wheels and seats, and it even made noise! I would say that the mystical penny was the result of wheedling and bargaining, but Lizzy wasn't in the picture to teach me that trick yet, and my mother has the endurance of an ox when it comes to whining kids, so I know that wasn't it. But that penny, that magical penny! That was the special part that my toddler sized brain could grasp. I never got the penny. Never. Today, though, today I get the penny.

I run to the front of the store, leaving my grocery laden mother behind. But what ho? There's another kid crawling into the truck, about to insert her own penny. I will just have to wait.

This girl, the lucky driver of the penny ride truck, has a thick shock of brown hair similar to carded wool bunching out from behind a purple headband that matches her bright purple t-shirt with a rearing white unicorn emblazoned on the front. About to insert her penny and begin the magical ride of joy and wonder, she notices me, small, unimposing, and most of all trusting. The wheels in her little mind spin rapidly, and she does a quick math equation in her head.

1 penny = 1 ride = Amusing

2 pennies = 2 rides =  BEST DAY EVER

The decision is made quickly. "Hey."

I stand blithely apart, moony and dreaming of my truck ride.

"Hey," she repeats, louder now.

I jump. "Me?"

She nods. This will be easy, she thinks. This kid is an idiot. "I'll share my ride if you share yours."

I blink, doing the exact same math she did earlier, and my face lights up. THIS IS THE BEST IDEA EVER. I eagerly accept.

This should be the part where I tell you the truck ride is amazing and exceeds all my expectations and we drive off into the sunset to form a lifelong friendship. But actually...

I remember it sucking.

Lizzy, this conniving genius, this manipulator, this penny stealer, makes me sit shotgun for both rides. Her penny, her ride, sure, that's fair. But when I ask to sit in the driver side for my turn, she points out that we're both already seated and to get up and out to switch would be silly. Not particularly confrontational, I quietly nod and start the second ride. Fine. But can I hold her stuffed dog that's sitting in the flatbed (that's how awesome this truck was, it had a flatbed)? No, I touch that dog and she'll kill me. Not even exaggerating this one. She tells me with such finality that I am never to touch the stuffed dog that I am convinced touching her dog can only end in death, at the ripe age of 4.

The second ride ends, and Lizzy happily jumps down, proud of the day's conquest, clutching her toy dog. I follow with less energy and grace, contenting myself with the fact that I got two rides where I only expected one, even if I had to sit shotgun for both rides. And I never have to see this girl again.

That is, until the ride home when my mom tells me that Lizzy has a brother the same age as my new younger sibling and that she exchanged numbers with Lizzy's mom for play dates. I'm sure that when the adult Lizzy reads this, she'll be pleased to know my first impression of one of my best childhood friends left a knot in my stomach.

Wait, you don't do that?

So yesterday at work when it was super dead, the Boredom Bear decided to strike. The Boredom Bear is just this thing I made up to entertain my coworkers, but instead it ended up being one of those "Men are from Mars and Cydney is from Alpha Centurion 6" moments - for the last 6 months. See, I've been slowly realizing since about, oh, kindergarten, that my childhood ranged from quirky to "How are you a functional human?" But my family is a different blog post or ten, so for now we'll just leave it at I have an off-kilter personality and what I find hilarious other people tend to find annoying and disturbing.

So the Boredom Bear. I'll just run at a coworker, which totally freaks them out, jump and stop right in front of them, throw my arms up and go "Arr, I'm a bear." The first time I did this, I thought it was hilarious, but everyone just looked at me like I'd skipped my happy pills that morning. Convinced I was actually hilarious, I continued doing it, minus the running and jumping, all night long, just randomly shouting "Arr, I'm a bear!" at my coworkers. Still, no one thinks its funny. So I do it now on dead nights just to piss off/weird out the people around me. See, as already expressed, I'm not a huge fan of my job, so the Boredom Bear has the duel benefits of entertaining me and making everyone else a little less happy to be there. No one really asked, either, the reaction was always "You Would."

ASIDE:

Whenever people tell me "You would" after I do something... I was going to say "me" but we'll just go with "quirky", I get both pissed off and flattered. Flattered they've been paying enough attention to me heretofore to classify certain behaviors as unique to me, but also pissed off because they typically say it like a bad thing. So what if I'm 19 and I still write Star Wars fanfiction? It's good, damn it, LeiaLover1918 told me so!

BACK TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMING:

But last night the new girl, who hasn't known me long enough (so, less than a week) to stereotype me asked what I was doing. I thought that was obvious.

"I'm the Boredom Bear."

She didn't really accept that, but she didn't push it and tried instead a different angle "But why?"

Oh, well... explaining that I'm secretly 8 years old to this person who seemed to like me seemed like a bad idea, and then she might ask why again, and explaining that most of my personality is pirated from a 16 year old kid who can figure out biochemistry by himself but doesn't understand the concept of daily hair brushing seemed also like a bad idea so I lied.

"When I was a kid I'd jump out and pretend I was a bear, and my parents would scream and act all scared and now I still kind of expect the same reaction."

Yeah, that's not childish AT ALL. And even though I could see my parents indulging me in such a way, I don't think that ever actually happened. As a kid I was far more inclined to play Robin Hood with the fly swatters (blue and grey, my mom still keeps them under the kitchen counter) than be something so mundane as a bear. 

But I must have said it with enough of a smile or freaked her out enough that she bought it or dropped it.

THINGS as Judged by Cydney

You know what sucks? Homework sucks. In general, I would submit that most of the things I do with my day suck, and since I am, by my very nature, inclined to be judgmental and also overuse commas, I'm going to judge things. Why? BECAUSE I'M JESUS.

Working at a corporate restaurant

Why it sucks: Not that I really know what it's like working at a privately owned, ma and pa restaurant either, since before my stint as an automated food monkey in one of America's major casual dining chains, I was a cocktail waitress in a bowling alley and my job consisted of smiling pretty and bringing mom and dad a beer while the kiddos bounced bowling balls off the bumpers as hard as they could. Extra points for getting it in someone else's lane. Now, though, I actually have to do work and crap. Like, take down orders and bring out food trays that weigh more than I do in saturated fats alone. And if I don't do the whole thing, 4-10 freaking hours a night, smiling like Joan Rivers and sweet enough to give you cavities with a "Heeeeeeeeeeeeey guys, how ya doing?" then I don't make enough money to pay for my ridiculously overpriced education and I get complaints to the managers about being "surly" "distant" and "uncaring." I want a button that says "I only care about your dog/grandchild/hip replacement/episode of Family Feud if you tip 30%."

Why it doesn't suck: Free food. Constantly. From the cooks, from the managers, from people (intentionally) screwing up orders.  I don't even bother eating before the dinner shift because I get a constant diet of chocolate cake, french fries, sandwiches, salads, chocolate cake sandwiches deep fat fried, nachos stacked higher than my face, and more. Oh so much more. I think I probably eat more than I'm worth to the company. As a potential capital investment, I'm a complete loss. Except that for every single item on the menu, I can totally tell my customer "Oh, I had that for dinner. Good choice!" And for some reason they trust me. Like, if the skinny starving college kid who constantly wanders around like she lost a sock and is convinced it's somewhere on the floor and if only she walks past the same spot again, then she'll find it! likes the deep fat fried lard you're about to order, then it's totally worth the 300% mark up you'll pay after your 3rd trip to the bathroom but before the coronary bypass. So actually, free food and the ability to steer people into a slow death of high cholesterol.

Your drunk Facebook photos:

Why they suck: I spent Saturday night researching a 20 minute group presentation while my roommate folded socks, and as if I wasn't aware enough that I'm a poor excuse for an irresponsible young adult, you had to post pictures of you and everyone else I know doing Jagerbombs in floral footie pajamas the next morning WITHOUT CAPTIONS. I can clearly see the progression from clothed and sober to partially clothed and not so sober to absolutely wasted and in footie freaking pajamas, but you don't bother explaining how you thought that was a good idea. And did you all bring your footie pajamas, or did someone just happen to have 12 pairs lying around? Did you have a big footie pajama orgy when you were done? I want to know the story here. I've always wanted a pair of footie pajamas. Not to sleep in, but to answer the door in, because how do you react to someone answering the door in dinosaur footie pajamas when they're also clearly reading Tolstoy? You don't. You put the package down and you walk away and I get to stamp WIN on my forehead for the afternoon.

Why they don't suck: I'm not hung over, and I bet to hell you are. In fact, I feel pretty sprightly right now, and I'm sure you're sucking down Pediasure and praying to the shower nozzle to just die now. Also, I get to watch your life spiral out of control. That slutty Halloween costume? No one's fooled, sugar, we all know you're still spiraling from the break up and this is a desperate attempt to show him "I am so over you, betch."


Being an Economics Major

Why it sucks: Have you ever tried to read an economics text book? No? It's like a slow lobotomy. Here, have a sample of what I just tried to read:

What determines our economy's level of Y = W + P? The amount of spending in the economy, or C+I. Thus any S not spent on I, that is S_{H -} I_{H +} S_{B -} I_B, furnishes no demand for output. So, C+I determines Y.

Do you know what that means? Because I don't, and I have the whole freaking thing sitting in front of me. And I get that economics is a math, it's about money and capital and blah blah blah, but when you have 90% of the chapter in those cryptic variables and equations, it takes me twice as long to read. And then I have a test on it where I get a minute per question and just stare at the paper until finally a little part of my brain implodes and I just choose C because I read a statistic once that C is the best guess if on any given multiple choice question.

Why it doesn't suck: The more I learn about Economics, the more I'm convinced that everyone around me is an idiot and only us Elite Educated Economists (We go by EEE for short) should be allowed to make major decisions. And then when I get into a debate with anyone besides my father who minored in Economics and works as a financial analyst (aka Mystical Money Voodoo Man) about The Current State  of Affairs, I can secretly quote my teacher and my textbooks and sound like I know what the hell I'm talking about, which just fuels my hipster arrogance that comes standard in every box of TOMS shoes.